


She Does Not Give In

by TheAdamantDaughter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fixations, Jonsa Summer Challenge, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 09:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11483445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAdamantDaughter/pseuds/TheAdamantDaughter
Summary: She allows her lips only skimming grazes against his cheekbone, offers her fingertips only ghosting brushes over the fur collar that warms his shoulders.





	She Does Not Give In

**Author's Note:**

> For the Jonsa S7 Summer Challenge, Day 3: Fixations

It is remarkable. Even with him gone, with the march already departed for the southern lands that very morn, she sees him still.

In the ice, the grey skies— she recognizes his eyes. Their hard glint when he rouses his men, the flash of determination when the sun glares through the canopy of clouds, how they melt to a warm silver when she’s alone with him.

With the snow and infinitely falling flakes, she fixates on his smile. His teeth stand out brightly, clashing with full, red lips, contrasting with the coarse hair along his chin. She loves his smile— the brief appearance it makes when he laughs, when he glances her way.

She resolves to make him smile more, if— No, _when._ Jon said when. She’ll make him smile more _when_ he returns with the victory.

She stops beneath barren trees, alone, that very prayer hanging on her tongue. The words halt, drowned out by the oppressive silence, stilled by the trees’ bark that’s exposed to the wind. The color is as rich as his brown curls. Brown curls that tumble in the breeze, whip around his face, caress his shoulders the same as she.

Her courage has only afforded her so much as the barest touches; for it seems, everyone she’s touched is gone. Her father. Her lady mother. Robb. Rickon. And the fate of Bran? The fate of Arya? She can’t know. She’s learned to fear the worst, to _embrace_ it.

This new law, this distance, it stands with Jon, stands as tall as the great Wall; thus, her hands shake and her breath comes in tremors when he’s near. She wants to touch him, to feel him, to memorize him lest she lose him.

She does not give in—

Her knuckles bump his when they walk side by side in the godswood. Her lungs fill with his scent, with pine and wild air and a touch of that lavender soap she’d given him.

He holds her for a moment, just before he leaves her.

She wraps her arms around his waist for exactly three heartbeats. She allows her lips only skimming grazes against his cheekbone, offers her fingertips only ghosting brushes over the fur collar that warms his shoulders.

When he lets go, she imagines how it’d be to _grip_ those shoulders, how it’d be to claw at those shoulders and trace the muscles lining his spine. She pictures her lips on his neck, on his collarbones, her teeth sinking into the hollow of his throat, her tongue chasing his pulse to a rampant speed.

 _Maybe,_ she tells herself, kneeling in the godswood and watching her reflection in the tranquil pool. The red flames of her hair tangle with snarls of dark brown branches above. 

She conjures a vision of him in her head, positions the ghost of him behind her, directs the fingers of the wind to twist in her hair and its breath, to send shivers across her neck. She swallows, leans into the mirage, leans into the smell of pine and lavender, pretends he’s here, pretends it’s not just a fading dream.

He’s marching away.

But, gods— gods above, she prays they’ll let her hold him, prays they’ll give her this wish.

_Maybe someday._

—everyone she’s touched, _everyone she’s loved,_ is gone.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In Secret, They Give](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864975) by [TheAdamantDaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAdamantDaughter/pseuds/TheAdamantDaughter)




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